


ii. lightyears

by peterstank



Series: his greatest creation [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Baby Peter, Iron Dad, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-07 04:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: Tony tucks his hands into his pockets and leans against the doorjamb for a moment, watching his son’s back rise and fall with every breath. Peter’s eyelids flutter as he sleeps, casting dark shadows against his flushed cheeks. He looks peaceful. Being completely oblivious to the tragedy that is his father probably helps with that.One day he won’t be, though. One day he’ll realise what a massive fuck up he has for a dad.or: raising a kid is hard work, but Tony is trying his best. Peter being the world’s most adorable baby definitely doesn’t hurt the situation.





	ii. lightyears

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again and the krispy kreme with some hecka fluffy irondad content!!!! get ready to melt!!!

i.

Tony is halfway across the country when Peter says his first words.

It just feels so disgustingly _ typical _that he missed it. He’s missed a lot of firsts, lately; first solid foods, the first time Peter had crawled. JARVIS, of course, has caught it all and relayed it to Tony, but it doesn’t feel the same as being there for it.

But Obie has been working him like crazy, scheduling meetings and booking hotel rooms in London, Miami, Tokyo, Istanbul; dragging Tony to the Middle East to do product demonstration after product demonstration; and giving Tony little more notice than five minutes to pack his things and run to the car out front waiting for him.

It’s not that Tony doesn’t understand. Obviously the company is important, and Obie is busy, and since 9/11 weapons demand has been higher than ever. They’re making big bucks and the world is in a state of chaos right now. Whatever, he gets it. 

But god if it doesn’t suck to hear secondhand accounts of this shit.

It’s Rhodey who calls him. Tony is just returning to the hotel room in Austin after a six hour long conference with a bunch of disgruntled army generals who had been just as reluctant to be there as he was. Obie had been the only one to sit through the thing with a smile on his face. 

Tony collapses face-first onto the bed. He groans, long and loud, though no one is there to hear him. 

His phone rings.

Tony picks up and immediately repeats the sound, grateful for an audience. 

Rhodey laughs. “Are you sitting down?”

“Why? You gonna fly out and give me a lap dance?”

“_Tony.”_

“God, I’m sorry.” Tony pinches his brow to ease off the budding headache and flips onto his back. “I’ve had a long day. Is everything good?”

“Oh, fine,” Rhodes says breezily. “I took your trashes to the curb—”

“There’s a maid for that—”

“I know, and she’s like sixty and complains about back pain all day in Russian—”

“She’s very reliable, she always does it—”

“Well _ I did it for her. _ That’s what you do when you’re a _ nice person. _Anyway, I ordered pizza. Watched the game. Put Peter down for a nap, and guess what?”

“What? Did he fall out? Did you drop him on his head?”

“He said his first word.”

Tony’s heart just _ drops. _

“Oh.”

“‘_Oh’?_” Rhodey repeats. “You don’t sound very excited.”

“No, I am, I am,” Tony nods even though Rhodey can’t see, because it’s himself he needs to convince. “It’s amazing. My baby is a fucking genius.”

“You sound morose.”

“The only people who use the word ‘morose’ in casual conversation are old women and Ben Franklin impersonators.”

“_Tony,_ man, what’s up? I thought you’d be happy about this!”

“And I am,” Tony promises. “Really. Listen, I gotta go, okay?”

“Tony—”

He hangs up.

Throws his phone across the room. 

_ I should’ve been there, _he thinks, just as he realises: he hadn’t even asked Rhodey what Peter’s first word was. 

* * *

When he gets home, the first thing he does is go upstairs, bypassing Rhodey who just sighs like he can’t believe he expected anything else. 

Peter is napping, fast asleep with one tiny fist curled around his onesie, the other clutching a bear to his chest. 

Tony barely leans over him when Peter starts to stir. For a second Tony just lets him ride it out, thinking he might fall back to sleep just as quickly, but then Peter’s legs start kicking in his footie pajamas and he starts to whine, starts to cry.

His eyes open just as Tony is reaching down. 

Just like that, a few blinks and a heartbeat, and Peter is _ smiling. _He laughs, happy and almost surprised, and makes grabby hands at Tony. 

Tony who _ melts. _

“Hi, bubble butt,” Tony whispers. “Guess you missed me as much as I missed you, huh?”

Peter touches Tony’s face. “Da-da.”

Tony freezes. “Oh?”

Peter makes one of his happy squealing sounds that always falls somewhere between a laugh and a velociraptor screech. “_Da-da-da-da-da!”_

For a second, Tony doesn’t even know what to think. Sure, Peter babbles sometimes, but it’s still so strange to hear him say something and understand its meaning. 

_ Dada _ is _ Tony._

“What the fuck,” Tony whispers. “You’re a genius, you know that? I bet you’re even smarter than me. Look at you! You’re _ talking!”_

Peter accepts the kiss Tony presses to his small mop of brown curls. He wiggles a little, grunting and clutching at Tony’s shirt. 

The excitement has quickly worn off for his little baby brain and he’s already moved onto other things, like being utterly exhausted from another long day as a poop dispenser.

Tony doesn’t mind. He rests his forehead against Peter’s until his son’s breathing evens out again, and then carefully readjusts his hold so he can carry him downstairs. 

Rhodey is leaning against the back of the couch with his arms folded over his chest. 

“I see you got reacquainted with the kid.”

“I did,” Tony says. “We’re finally on a first name basis after ten months of getting to know each other.”

Rhodey drops the exasperated act and grins. “I see. So things are getting pretty serious?”

“You could say that.” Tony lifts his chin loftily, skirting around Rhodey to sit on the floor. He lays Peter down against his criss-crossed legs and just stares for a minute. “He scares me.”

“Why?”

Tony can’t look away. He traces Peter’s chin, his nose, his cheekbones. “He’s growing up too fast. He was literally born yesterday, you know? Now he’s talking and laughing and tomorrow he’ll be like, running the country or something.”

Rhodey sits down next to Tony. “You know what you need?”

“What?”

“_You _need to learn to live life in the moment. Stop looking ahead so much, okay?”

Tony snorts. “Are you kidding me? I barely think ahead ever.”

“You do with him.”

He has a point.

Tony strokes Peter’s belly absently as he meets his friends eyes. “I wasn’t here,” he states, and hates how hard his voice sounds. 

Somehow, Rhodey finds the jagged edges, the clips and crevices in his tone. “Man, that’s _ okay. _ I know all of this stuff is important, but Tones, parents miss their kids’ firsts _ all the damn time. _It doesn’t make you a bad father for being gone.”

“Yeah? I bet that’s what my dad told himself. _ It’s okay I’m gone, I’m providing for the family, _right? That’s how it works? Absentee fathers always spout that bullshit. It doesn’t matter, money is just as important as love, right?”

“Tony, relax.”

“No, _ you _relax.”

Rhodey hasn’t even raised his voice. He doesn’t look anything but sad. “Tony, I understand. I know it’s hard for you to be away from him. Hell, it’s hard for me and he’s not even _ mine.”_

“Yes he is,” Tony says, and holds Peter out just to prove it. “He’s yours too.”

Rhodey sighs fondly but accepts Peter. “Not the way he’s yours.”

Tony slumps against the couch. “Did you at least make sure JARVIS recorded it?”

* * *

Tony doesn’t watch it until later that night, holed up in the shop working on yet another project. It’s early stages and he’s still thinking it through, so he allows himself the small break.

JARVIS plays back the footage and Tony sits in silence, holding Peter against his chest. He had been sitting in his pack and play all the way in the back where Tony didn’t have to worry about him getting hurt, but DUM-E had been getting a little too antsy with the fire extinguisher so he opts to keep Peter close instead. 

It’s not a long video, maybe twenty seconds. 

Peter, standing up in his crib, crying so loudly his face is beet red. Rhodey coming in to calm him down. Peter’s first word: _ Dada, _is a sob ripped straight from his mouth. 

Tony sits there for a long minute. 

He looks down at Peter, who’s contentedly petting the desk like it’s an animal and babbling nonsensically. 

“JARVIS,” he snaps, “call Rhodey.”

After two rings, his friend picks up. “Man, I just got home. If you managed to set the house on fire in the twenty minutes it took for me to get from my house to yours, I’m gonna scream.”

“You forgot to mention the fact that he was crying.”

“What?”

“Peter. When he said his first word. You didn’t tell me he was _ bawling his eyes out.”_

“Tony…” Rhodey sighs, “babies cry all the time. What’s the big deal?”

The big deal is: Peter had been crying so much he’d been reduced to a mess of tears and loud, heart-wrenching sobs. His face had _ lit up _when Tony had come back. 

His little poop nugget had _ missed him. _

Tony clears his throat, hastily wiping his eyes. “It’s nothing. Never mind. Have a good night, Sour Patch.”

Rhodey hums disbelievingly. “Yeah, you too.”

The call ends. Tony is left alone with a rambling baby and a robot with good but slightly murderous intentions. 

DUM-E slowly stretches his claw out, inch by inch, freezing every time Tony so much as breathes.

He gets close.

Closer.

_ So close. _

Tony swats his claw away at the last second, when he’s an inch away from touching Peter’s curls. “Nah-ah! Go charge, you decroded piece of crap!” 

DUM-E whirs and dismally drags himself over to his charging station, claw hanging low. 

Peter blinks up at Tony.

“You’re right.” Tony nods. “I’m never leaving you. Not ever.”

It is the first of many promises.

It’s the only one he breaks.

* * *

ii.

“Get me out of here.”

“Relax,” Pepper sets down her flute of champagne and straightens his tie. “It’s only been seven minutes.”

“Yeah, seven minutes in _ hell,”_ Tony gripes. “Hey, think there’s a closet nearby? We could try it the other way around.” 

Pepper gives him a look, the perfect depiction of exasperated amusement. “I don’t even know where to start with that.”

“You’re right, it was over the line, I apologise—”

A hand clamping down on his expensive silk Armani suit cuts off his (admittedly sincere) apology. “Tony,” Obie says happily, all ear to ear smiles and twinkling eyes. “You made it!”

Tony tries for a smile. It’s weak. “Sure did.”

“Well come, come,” Obie pulls him away from Pepper, “no need to hide in the shadows like some teenage acne-riddled wallflower. We’re a long way from those days, huh?” He laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Follow me, there are some investors from Beijing I want you to meet.”

Tony doesn’t argue, even though every part of him wants to. He’s been trying to integrate himself into the business side of things anyway, but so far he hasn’t been largely successful. At most, he has a foot in the door, and even that is stretching it. Obie’s been rather adamant that he just focus solely on weapons production; _ we have all the hands we need on deck already, but there’s only one mind like yours. _

At the time, he’d smiled, standing in the middle of Obie’s office—the one that overlooked the ocean, though it had been so late the water was just black. Obie has poured a drink for himself. The amber liquid had filled the crystal cut glass and he had grinned to himself after a long sip. He’d asked Tony how life was as a single dad.

The smile had slipped.

Tony didn’t really like talking about Peter with Obie. The feeling seems largely mutual even now. Occasionally Obie will use Peter as an argument for Tony to keep his nose out of where it doesn’t belong. He wants Tony behind the scenes doing what he does best. 

He’s not throwing him a bone tonight, either. Tony is just here for appearances, there to get people so nervous or drunk they’ll agree to almost anything. There to flash a blinding smile or two, maybe say a few words at some point, and then call it a night. 

And also, hopefully, avoid consuming a single drop of alcohol.

He’d told himself it would be a good time to test run things, but right now it feels more like torture. And really, what’s the harm in one drink? Especially if he’s out of the house? It’s not like _ he’ll _be the one driving home, he has Happy for that. 

Tony’s hand twitches as a waiter slips passed with a tray of glittering drinks. 

He swipes one.

Obie doesn’t even falter. He keeps chatting up the investors as Tony sips his drink, burning shame no match for the sting of the scotch in his throat. It’s just _ one. _

But then one turns into two. 

And then three.

Four, later, when some woman asks him to hold her drink and then gets dragged off by one of her friends. Tony is left alone with the bubbling golden champagne. 

He sets the glass down, empty, a few seconds later.

The gala progresses. At some point, items are auctioned off for charity. In the middle of the whole spectacle Tony slips out and wanders to the private bar.

He sits down. Convinces himself that because he’s already had this many, he might as well have a few more, right? It’s just _ one night. _

Buzzing, dazed, hot, he goes outside. 

The event is being held in someone’s mansion on the outskirts of the city. From here, the sprawling lights of Malibu are visible across the bay. Tony leans against the balcony rail and tucks his hands into his pockets.

He’s not in the mood for thinking. Or for anything, really. He just stands there and watches the waves crest against the shore, smoothing out the sand. There are still people roaming the beach, couples walking and dogs barking and teenagers huddled around bonfires. It’s all very… very happy. Very wholesome and complete and ideal. 

It’s nothing like the fractured reality Tony deals with on a daily basis. The dead mother of his half orphaned kid, the daddy issues that give him nightmares sometimes, the dead parents. It’s too much dead. Too much bad, all bottled up, solidifying like lead in his stomach.

Oh, look at that. He’s thinking.

A few minutes into the dark ruminations though, and the door behind him swings open.

Pepper steps out. She’s wearing a relatively conservative red dress, but the back is open and it’s really… something. 

Really something.

“Ms Potts.”

“Mr Stark,” she returns. “What are you doing out here? You missed Obie buying himself a yacht.”

“Is he drunk?”

She snorts. “Not enough to justify _ that.”_

Tony hums. He leans his head against the stucco wall and sighs. “This place is gross. I need my baby immediately or I’ll blow up.”

“_Mr Stark.”_

“What? _ What?! _ Haven’t we been here long enough?! You said mingle, I mingled. Your wish is my command. We raised money for… something, I don’t know. I’d call the night a success.”

Pepper squints. She steps forward into his personal space and sniffs lightly. “Mr Stark, have you been drinking?”

Tony stiffens. “Of course not.”

“I think you have,” Pepper says, and her voice sounds all sad and pitying like he’s some animal who can’t help pissing on the carpet because of all it’s traumas. “Mr Stark—”

“I think you forget, Ms Potts, that I am your _ employer. _Regardless of any attachment you might have formed for me, there’s a line here. You’re crossing it.”

Pepper’s eyes widen, but only marginally. She steps back. She might be blushing, but in the moonlight it’s hard to tell. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”

“No, it’s not.” 

There is a pause. 

Tony shifts. 

Pepper stiffens.

Neither of them speak as he walks back into the building.

* * *

Tony comes home to a dark house.

He slips out of his jacket and shoes, yanks off his tie, and wanders into the kitchen for a drink. 

Except, of course, there is only an array of non-alcoholic beverages. Juice, milk, water. No scotch, no tequila, not even wine.

Tony stands there in front of the open fridge for a long time, letting the cool air wash over him. Then he closes it, swallowed up by the dark.

The buzz is starting to wear off. He hadn’t had enough to really get _ drunk, _and even as he stumbles up the stairs he feels himself grow more and more aware. By the time he makes it to his room, the white noise has finally receded, leaving him with loud, crushing thoughts. 

And then it all just goes away, because there’s a lump in his bed.

Specifically, a lump the size of a two year old boy, clad in red footie pajamas with his butt in the air and his face pressed against the pillow.

Peter has been doing this more and more recently; climbing out of his crib at all hours of the night like it’s the easiest obstacle in the course. At first it had scared the shit out of him, but Peter has only ever run straight across the hall into Tony’s room, so he hasn’t done much to stop it.

Tony tucks his hands into his pockets and leans against the doorjamb for a moment, watching his son’s back rise and fall with every breath. Peter’s eyelids flutter as he sleeps, casting dark shadows against his flushed cheeks. He looks peaceful. Being completely oblivious to the tragedy that is his father probably helps with that. 

One day he won’t be, though. One day he’ll realise what a massive fuck up he has for a dad.

It’s moments like these ones that give Tony doubts. He wonders sometimes if he did the right thing, or if maybe he should’ve just let Peter live with the Parkers. 

Then Peter shifts, lets out a small sigh, and Tony melts. 

What the fuck is he thinking? Like he could possibly stomach any other reality than this one? 

He walks over and kneels on the floor so he’s at eye-level with Peter. For a few minutes, he just sits there and marvels how someone so fucking adorable came from _ him. _Tony runs his hands through Peter’s hair, and Peter stirs.

“Shit,” Tony whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you, baby.”

Peter blinks blearily. He rubs an eye with a chubby fist. “Daddy?”

_ That _ is the best sound in the world. It makes Tony’s heart settle back in his chest, makes the guilt fuck off for another day. This is his _ son. _This is his baby. 

Tony smiles. “Hey, blueberry.”

Peter reaches out to grab his nose. “Missed you.”

“Yeah?” Tony lays his hand on Peter’s back and runs his fingers up and down in gentle strokes, because it always soothes him. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. Did Roberta take good care of you?”

Peter nods but Tony can tell he’s fading out. “Fell asleep.”

Tony doesn’t know if he’s referring to Roberta or himself. He hadn’t seen Rhodey’s mother on his way up, so he assumes she must have crashed in the guest bedroom downstairs. 

“Smelly,” Peter remarks suddenly.

Tony snorts. “Me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He nods. “I bet. How about this: I take a shower and brush my teeth, and then we can watch a movie. Sound good?”

Immediately Peter perks up, like he was never sleeping at all. “Okay.”

* * *

Peter ends up perched on top of the closed toilet seat while Tony showers, rambling about a number of nonsensical things behind the curtain. He tells Tony about what he and Roberta did today; apparently they met a dog in the park, and now Peter is dead set on getting one.

Tony, on the other hand, is just doing his best to sober up. The shower certainly helps. The heat encases him, makes him feel a little bit less like he’s seeping scotch from his pores. 

While he brushes his teeth, Peter climbs up onto the counter and starts drawing pictures in the steam on the mirror. A flower, a heart, a cat, a dog. 

“I can see that you’re getting at something, here.”

Peter turns to look at him and smiles goofily. He points to the heart. “I love you?”

Tony scoops Peter up before he can think about it. He presses a smothering kiss to Peter’s cheek. “I love you too, Bambi.”

Peter doesn’t even complain about gross kisses from his scruffy bearded dad, either because he’s too tired or too desperate. He just pecks Tony’s nose and smiles. “Can we watch Old Yeller?”

* * *

His not-so-subtle son falls asleep only twenty minutes into the movie, before it takes the classical downward turn. Tony is relieved. He hadn’t been thrilled at the idea of explaining rabies and also death to his son in one go.

Then his phone rings. The sound startles Peter right out of sleep as the credits are rolling. He lifts his cheek off of Tony’s chest, all red and smooshed and not remotely pleased. 

Tony fumbles to answer. 

“You’ve got Stark.”

“Um, hi,” says a voice, female, shaky, uncertain. “This is… this is May Parker? I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

“May as in Mary’s sister in law?”

There’s a somewhat relieved sigh. “That’s the one.”

Tony immediately feels a pang if guilt, and this time it isn’t so easily pushed away. He’d told her he would give her updates, and while he’s done his best to document all the little things so far, he’s yet to actually send her a tape. 

“Is something wrong?”

He can’t think of a single reason that she would be calling him so late. 

He _ never _would’ve expected the one she gives him.

“Richard died an hour ago.”

Tony stiffens. Peter reacts to that by frowning. He doesn’t say anything, though, thankfully. Maybe he hadn’t heard. _ Hopefully. _

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she breathes out. “God, I’m so sorry for calling so late. I know you never even met him, but I’ve been calling _ everyone _I can think of to let them know and I just figured…”

“No, that’s okay,” Tony says. “H-How did it happen?”

He winces at his lack of tact, but May answers just the same. “He was hit in the middle of an intersection. Some drunk asshole ran a red light and—”

At this point, she stops talking. Or maybe he just stops hearing her. _ Some drunk asshole. _

“That sounds awful,” he croaks out, just to put an end to the ringing silence. 

May sniffles. “I’m sorry,” she says waveringly. “I’m a complete mess. For some reason I got it into my head to invite you to the funeral, but that’s completely crazy, right?”

Tony pauses. Shifts so he can hold Peter better, because suddenly he feels like he’s falling and if there’s one thing in the world that always, _ always _makes that better, it’s his son. 

“It’s not crazy,” Tony tells her, quietly.

“It’s-it’s mostly Peter. They never met either, but Richard always wondered about him. Always worried how he was getting on.”

Another, more cold wave of surprise washes over Tony. “I always figured he would’ve been… angry.”

“Most men probably would’ve, but not Rich. He was good. He was _ kind.”_

There’s a scuffling sound. A sob, barely stifled. 

Tony leans his head against the couch cushion and closes his eyes. 

“When is the funeral?”

“Oh, you don’t have to come—”

“Mary cared about him, right? Loved him?” Tony feels a soft hand touch his cheek, feels something warm and wet wiped away. “I think it’s only right her son is there, don’t you?”

May is silent. “You really mean that?”

“I can’t… I can’t guarantee it,” he tells her, “but I can do my absolute best. I’ve got two years of baby stuff to catch you up on, anyways, Parker.”

There’s a fraught laugh, almost like it’s startled out of her and she can do nothing but surrender to it. “Are the twos as terrible as they say?”

Tony cracks an eye. Peter is still awake, staring with those huge brown eyes, his mouth pressed against Tony’s chest, all soft curls and rosy cheeks. “They could be a lot worse.”

Peter squirms closer. He bumps his nose against Tony’s chin, like an eager puppy that wants attention. 

May sighs. “I should probably let you go. I have so much more to do.”

“Of course,” Tony says. He thinks, quickly, and makes a decision. “And May?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll front everything.”

“Mr Stark, I can’t possibly accept—”

“Please. It’s what Mary would’ve wanted.”

“All due respect, but I doubt that.”

“Okay, fair. But it’s… it’s what I can do. Let me do this? Let me help?”

There is a lengthy, considering pause. “Alright.”

“Thank you.” Tony sighs, sagging impossibly more against the couch cushions. “Call me if you need anything else?”

“I—sure.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Parker.”

“Goodnight, Stark.”

The line goes dead. Tony closes his phone and squints at Peter, who immediately beams when he realises he has Tony’s full attention again. “What’s a funeral?”

_ Oh, boy. _

* * *

iii. 

The funeral is held on a dreary morning in a quiet cemetery. There are only a handful of people in attendance, and all of them are far too wrapped in grief to care about Tony’s presence, much less notice him at all.

Even still, Tony tries to keep himself well concealed. He uses Peter as a shield for most of it, holding him and occasionally ducking his head in the folds of Peter’s brand new black jacket, just to be safe. 

Richard’s brother, Ben, speaks. May cries. An older woman with dyed red hair sits hunched over in her seat with a handkerchief covering her mouth. Every once in a while, she folds into the sobs that wrack her body. 

Tony feels out of place. He stands off to the side and listens, and waits, and holds onto the one thing he knows, the one familiar person in this group of strangers. 

After the casket has been lowered and the roses and notes have been thrown, it starts to rain lightly. That’s when May wanders over. She hasn’t changed much at all from when Tony last saw her. She doesn’t look any better or any worse, because even then she’d been grieving, drawn, exhausted.

Her puffy, red-rimmed eyes lock onto Peter. He’s more than fed up with the whole thing and has since tucked his head under Tony’s chin to sleep. 

“Mr Stark,” May says, voice raspy. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” Tony shifts his grip to shake her hand, trying to ignore how strange it feels. Should he be hugging her? Even if Peter wasn’t stuck to him like an (admittedly adorable) leech, Tony doesn’t think he would have. They’ve spent maybe three whole hours in each other’s company, and though they are faintly connected, they are not close.

May opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, and falters just as Peter lets out a sleepy humming sound that vibrates gently against Tony’s sternum. 

“He’s so small,” she whispers.

It’s true. Peter is and always has been small, though small_er _than other children remains to be seen, really, as he doesn’t get the chance to interact with others his age much. His doctors say he’s healthy, and secretly Tony doesn’t mind much. 

May blinks. “I’m sorry. It’s just been so long, and—”

“I understand,” Tony says, and tries for a smile, but it feels unnatural. “I’m sorry that you’re meeting him on a day like this, it’s…”

“Shitty?”

Tony’s lip quirks up. “You could say that.”

She nods. Pulls her coat tighter around herself and takes a daring step forward, leaning around to glimpse Peter’s tranquil face. In sleep, with the cold, his cheeks are flushed. His curls are falling slightly damp into his eyes. 

“He looks like her,” May mutters. Her eyes flit up to Tony’s face briefly. “Well, you, mostly. Jesus, that’s undeniable. But he has Mary’s hair colour, and her nose, a little bit.”

Tony resists the urge to look at Peter despite having seen him a thousand times before, just to scan him for all the things she’s pointing out, the things he’d never really noticed. 

Instead he settles for kissing the top of Peter’s head. He ignores the way May’s shoulders drop infinitesimally with what he thinks might be relief.

“May,” says Ben Parker, approaching them in a slight rush, “I really gotta get my mother home. She’s not doing so good and—”

“Of course, of course,” May kisses his cheek, familiar and easy, like breathing, “will you stay with her tonight?”

“I—probably.” He doesn’t look too pleased about the prospect. “She’ll need someone. Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be okay.” May smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes, but there is still a warmth there, a warmth for this six foot, slightly bulky fire-fighter type guy. “Take care of your Ma. I got company to keep anyways.”

With that, Ben Parker seems to take notice of Tony for the first time. His eyes widen. “Are you—?”

“I am.”

“And that’s—?”

“It is.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

Ben squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them again. “Okay. Well, I’m gonna head out. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

May nods. “I won’t, but alright.”

“Don’t bruise my ego like that,” Ben mutters offhandedly, already making toward the woman with the poor dye job. Then he stops. Realises that this is his _ brother’s _ funeral, his brother is _ dead, _and he just make a joke. For two seconds, Ben Parker forgot. 

He takes a deep breath.

He keeps walking.

* * *

“There are his first steps,” Tony mutters around a mouthful of buttery, too-salty popcorn.

They are sprawled out on the floor, for whatever reason. It had just sort of happened. They’d started at the kitchen table with two mugs of steaming tea May hadn’t let steep long enough (he’s getting the feeling more and more as the night progresses that cooking isn’t exactly her strong suit), while Peter had curled up on the couch fast asleep. Then Peter had—for whatever unimaginable reason—decided the floor was The Place To Be At, and rolled onto the rug instead. 

One thing lead to another, and now they’re both staring at the TV watching home videos of Peter’s first _ everything _ like it’s the latest blockbuster. 

May hasn’t torn her eyes from the screen once except to blot them with a tissue. 

“Look at that,” she marvels, tracking Peter’s movements on the screen. He stumbles and she winces, but then he gets right back up and starts again.

“He’s the smartest baby alive,” Tony tells her conspiratorially. “You know how they say we can’t regenerate brain cells? Not the case here. I think his multiply at least five times a day. He’s only two and last week I caught him reading in the bathtub. I mean, granted, I don’t think _ The Cow Says Moo _is a New York Times Bestseller by any means, and yes, the book was upside down, but still. Genius.”

May’s lips quirk up. Her brow furrows. “What was he doing reading while taking a bath?”

“Oh, he wasn’t. Sometimes he just sits in the tub. I’ve caught him sleeping in there a few times, too.”

She laughs. “That’s so strange.”

He shrugs. “Kids do weird things. At least, that’s what everyone tells me when I ask about it.”

“So you’ve told people?” asks May, finally looking at him with a piqued brow. “About Peter?”

“Just a handful. Only the people I couldn’t possibly afford _ not _to tell.”

May nods. They both look down at the real Peter, not the baby stumbling on the TV screen; the one curled up with his head in Tony’s lap, eyes closed. Even now, after two years, Tony is still in constant awe. Sure, it’s been a whirlwind of poop and vomit and all kinds of other horrible things, but when he’s asleep like this (and even, honestly, when he’s pooping and vomiting and doing all the horrible things) Tony loves him. 

He loves him in a way he’s never loved another human being. He loves him in a way he didn’t know a person _ could _love; this is for movies, it’s a fantasy, it’s a daydream rattling around the head of a fifteen year old college kid, wishing his dad would have a change of heart. 

It’s real. 

“Babies his age are all long naps and potty training accidents,” May informs him, with all of the wisdom of a five-year paediatric nurse. “Growing is tiresome.”

Tony hums. He runs his hand through Peter’s curls, still soft from the bath he’d had that morning. 

“I was worried. When you took him, I mean. I was worried and for a long time… I resented you, too. I mean, I knew you were his father, I knew it was your right and what Mary had wanted, but I didn’t think…”

May trails off. She sighs. “I don’t worry, anymore.”

Tony looks up. He meets her eyes and sees a grudging sort of respect, a tentative sort of trust. He thinks he probably doesn’t deserve it. Sure, he does his best, but just last week he’d come home drunk after biting Pepper’s head off when she was only trying to help him.

Something he still hasn’t apologised for. It’s been tense.

Tony returns his attention to his son. “I’m doing my best, but sometimes I think I’m not enough.”

“Well hey,” May bumps their shoulders together, “you’ve got me now, right?”

* * *

They come home late the following evening, after staying the night at a hotel and spending a quiet day with May and Ben. May cries when they leave, because Peter had been a human stopper for all the grief she’d been refusing to feel, to acknowledge, and now she is left with no other choice but to face it.

Tony tries not to feel too bad about that. 

Peter is bouncy even after a full day roaming the streets of Queens. He fidgets in his seat and asks Tony a million questions, like when they’ll see May and Ben again, and why did New York have to be so far away from California, and why couldn’t _ they _live in New York instead? 

Tony answers each one patiently, while absentmindedly jotting down notes for a new project idea before he forgets them.

Peter isn’t satisfied with only fifty percent of Tony’s attention. He slips off his seat and stumbles over to Tony, only getting his attention when he tries to push away the legal pad. 

“What—Peter?” Tony frowns down at him. “Why are you out of your seat?”

Peter shrugs. He climbs up and into Tony’s lap. “Don’t wanna be in it.”

Tony sighs. He sets the pad aside and wraps his arms around his son. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that?”

Peter doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He nuzzles against Tony. “What’s that?”

“It’s what happens when kiddos like you get heads too big for their bodies.”

His eyes widen. “My head’s big?”

“_Huge.”_

Peter feels the top of his head like he’s trying to measure its size. “S’growin’?” he whispers, sounding terrified.

Tony laughs. He kisses Peter’s cheek just to get him to smile, too, and like always it works. Peter immediately forgets about his too big head, forgets about the funeral and the man who, in another life, could’ve been his step father. He forgets the world is a scary place, because he has Tony.

* * *

The house is dark and empty. 

There’s something hollow about the way it looks to Tony as he stands in the doorway with Peter in his arms. There are no lights on; the only source is the moon and the city, white and warm and pouring through the windows to spill across the floor. The furniture is swathed in shadow, and the white walls seem less clean and more hard. 

It’s such a startling contrast to the cramped Queens apartment he’d spent the last day in, the one that smelled like burnt cookies and incense, with the stacks of books and CDs and the dying plants in window planters and the throw blankets tossed over the worn couches.

Tony wonders, for the first time really, if this is the best place to raise a child.

But before he can follow that avenue of thought, a light _ does _click on, accompanied by the sound of hells scuffing the floor. 

Pepper steps into view. Her hair is slightly ruffled and falling from its style, her clothes are wrinkled in places, and she’s frowning. 

“I hope you weren’t using my house as a bachelorette pad.”

“That’s inappropriate.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Tony sets his duffel down. 

“I fell asleep on your couch,” Pepper tells him tersely, holding her ledger in a white-knuckled grip. “I was waiting for you.”

“That’s ominous of you.”

Her shoulders fall. God, she looks tired. “Please, Mr Stark.”

Tony takes a deep breath, trying to force down the dread rising inside him. He nods. “After I put the puppy down.”

Pepper’s nose wrinkles. “That sounds completely wrong.”

He _ almost _smiles. There’s a faltering pause and then he is striding past her, Peter slumped over his shoulder fast asleep. He stays that way even as Tony is laying him down in his kid sized bed, draping blankets over him and kissing his temple. Peter rolls over, facing the wall, and pulls Honeybear Jr against his chest with a sleepy hum.

For a minute, Tony just stays there on his knees beside Peter’s bed, watching his chest rise and fall, delaying having to look at Pepper with her determinedly set features and latent anger. 

“You’re watching him sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Is that something you do often?”

“Maybe. Why? Are you weirded out?”

“No,” she replies, all to quickly. “No, I… I actually think it’s sort of sweet.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

Tony dares look up. She’s hovering over his shoulder, not quite so rigid, eyes on Peter. He sighs as he leans back, resting his elbows on his knees. “I want to be good enough for him.”

“I think you’re a great father.”

He had already been opening his mouth to tack on whatever else, but her words make it snap shut. She throws out the words so casually, like they mean nothing when they are, in fact, everything. 

“I wasn’t good enough the other night,” he replies at last. “I said and did things I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.” 

Pepper purses her lips. She perched on the edge of Peter’s bed. “I was gonna resign tonight.”

“I figured,” Tony says, as his pulse jumps. “Any particular reason why?”

“Well I had this whole spiel about how we weren’t clicking and how I figured you would be better served working with someone else, but…”

“But?”

“But then you came home and I realised I’m an idiot.”

“I beg to differ.”

“No, really,” she says, “I was going to leave? Over what, a tiny drunken spat? I have _ benefits _here. I have a nice apartment and I get to go home to my cat—”

“You have a cat?”

“Yes, his name is Muffin, but that’s not the point—”

“Incorrect: it’s the only thing that matters now. When can I meet him?”

Pepper sighs. She throws him a perfectly fed up look. “You’re disarming.”

Something about the way she says it, in a soft, whispered way, almost _ vulnerably, _makes his heart skip. Tony tilts his head. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a… something. I don’t know. This is supposed to be a job, though, you know? Just a job. But there are times when it feels like…”

She stops. As much as Tony wishes she would keep going, he’s glad she doesn’t. Instead he nudges her heel with his shoe. “I get it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m glad you aren’t resigning—you _ aren’t _resigning, right?”

Her smile is small. “No, I’m not.” 

“Well, good, because that would make my request incredibly awkward.”

“And what request would that be, Mr Stark?”

“Be the kid’s godmother?”

Pepper’s eyes widen and flit to Peter. Tony rambles on. “I know it makes you sound like some old bitty with a cane and a floral handbag, but as we both know, I don’t have a lot of people. I’m trying to be enough here, but if a day comes when I’m not, I need someone there who’s here for _ him. _So this would, y’know, take precedence over the whole PA thing. And yeah, I know it’s unprofessional to ask and it puts you in an awkward place, but—”

“I’ll do it.”

“Come again?”

“I’ll do it,” she repeats. “Of _ course _I’ll do it.”

Tony smiles wider than he has in a long time. “Yeah?”

Pepper nods, curls bouncing, happily soaking the sight of Peter up. “Yeah.”

* * *

iv.

Tony is woken up at an obscene, ungodly hour on Peter’s third Christmas. 

It starts with knocking on his door. Tony jumps out of sleep and almost falls out of his bed. There are papers all over him, schematics for a more versatile weapon he’s been mulling over for the past few weeks. 

“Daddy?”

As surprised and slightly irritated as Tony feels, it all goes away with that. Just one word spoken in a tiny voice. 

“Yeah, peanut?”

There’s a scuffing sound. The door handle rattles. The words, “‘M not a peanut,” are muttered petulantly. Then louder: “Why is the door locked?”

It’s _ locked _ because for the past six months Peter has been spending every single night in Tony’s bed. He’d been having nightmare after nightmare, but now that they’ve finally tapered off, Tony had figured it was safe to sleep on his own. It’s _ also _locked because he’d been busy wrapping gifts from ‘Santa’, and he’d fallen asleep taking a break.

Which means Peter still can’t come in.

“It’s, uh…” Tony scrambles for an explanation. “it was an accident. Did you have a bad dream, kiddo?”

“No,” Peter says, and the handle rattles again. “I miss you.”

_ Oh. _

That’s… wow. Tony tries to ignore the ridiculous explosion of warmth he feels, expanding outward from his chest and turning the blood in his veins to liquified sunshine. He stumbles over to the door and jerks it open.

Peter is sitting cross legged on the hallway floor, pouting up at Tony with those big, brown eyes. 

“You don’t love me?”

“I—_ what?”_

He points at the door handle. “Tried to keep me out.”

Tony gapes, sputters, and then pinches his brow. “Baby, that’s not why it was locked.”

Peter blinks. He holds up his arms. Tony obliges by scooping him up, but instead of carrying him back inside his room with all the unwrapped gifts, he walks toward Peter’s bedroom.

“_No,”_ Peter protests, wriggling and sounding very much like he might cry, “I don’t wanna be alone, Daddy!”

It’s like getting punched in the gut, really. It’s how he feels whenever Peter gets upset, and instantly all he wants is to make it better.

“Kiddo,” he says, laying Peter down on his bed, “it’s Christmas Eve. If you don’t sleep, Santa won’t come, remember?”

Peter really starts crying. Tony is startled by the suddenness of it. Peter had been _ so _ excited before bedtime. Just as he’s thinking, _ holy shit, I’m actually a terrible father, _he realises what’s up.

“You had a nightmare, didn’t you, bambi?”

Reluctantly, Peter nods through his tears. He clumsily wipes his cheeks and sniffs. “S’not ‘possed to happen on Christmas.”

Tony’s resolve shatters into a thousand tiny, stupid, worthless pieces. He pulls Peter off the bed, straight into his arms, all bundled up in a blanket and upset. “I’m sorry, kiddo. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Peter shakes his head. He curls against Tony, tucking his head under his chin. “I wanna sleep with you.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Tony says, without missing a beat. “Screw Santa, it’s baby time.”

“M’not a baby.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh. I’m three.”

“Are you really?” Tony stands. “Well, that makes all the difference. Can you do me a favour, squirt?”

“Mmm?”

“Keep your eyes closed for me until I say you can open ‘em?”

“Why?”

Tony sighs. _ Three year olds. _“Santa isn’t the only one with presents for you. I don’t want you to see any of ‘em just yet, okay?”

Peter squirms, misery forgotten in favour of renewed excitement. “There’s presents for me?”

“_Of course. _Eyes closed or I’ll donate them all to charity.” 

Peter grunts, but does as Tony asks. He lays Peter down in the middle of his bed and quickly scrambles to get all the gifts out into the hall. Then, he shoots a quick text Pepper’s way _ begging _her to come by early to finish wrapping them for Peter. 

“Okay,” Tony says, once they’re safely hidden behind the door. 

Peter sits up. He scans the room like he’s looking for any Tony might have missed. He points. “What’s that?”

_ That _is a lonely, forgotten bow Tony hadn’t kicked into the closet quick enough. He picks it up, peels off the back, and sticks it onto Peter’s forehead. “Sleep, bubble butt.”

Peter frowns. “I don’t wanna have another bad dream.”

“You won’t, and even if you do, I’m _ right here.”_

“You can’t control my brain.”

Tony opens his mouth. Closes it. Squints. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

Peter flops onto his back. “My dreams aren’t smart. My dreams are mean.”

“Tell them to stop being so stupid and program something else for tonight. Something happy.”

“Like what?”

“Like whatever you want.”

Peter perks up. “Like a puppy?”

“Oh my god.”

* * *

v.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m _ good.”_

“You have everything you need? Pencils? Paper? Crayons?”

Peter nods. For the third time, he glances over his shoulder at the line of students outside his preschool classroom. There must be twenty of them, and all of them are mingling, a fair few are crying, most are with their parents. 

Tony desperately wants to stay, but it would only garner more attention. They’ve taken every precaution they can already; registered Peter under a fake name (_Parker, _for May, who had been the one to suggest it when Tony had presented his dilemma over the phone), a fake parent (Pepper, his single mother). It would be ridiculous to let all that go to waste just to hold Peter’s hand for an extra five minutes, right?

_ Right? _

“So if you need me—”

“I ask Mrs Brown to call Aunty Pepper.”

Tony nods. “Remember: listen to your teacher, try to make friends—”

“_Daddy—”_

“If you wanna come home at _ any point, _just let me know—”

“_Daddy, _ I’m gonna be _ late.”_

He’s probably right, but Tony can’t quite bring himself to let go. He knows it’s only for four hours, he _ knows _Peter will be just fine, but it’s still the most terrifying thing in the world. He’s only four, but he’s bored out of his mind and needs to make friends his age, needs to socialise. Both May and Pepper have lectured him endlessly on that front, and now that Tony’s finally given in, all he wants is to take it back.

So he says, “What if we just waited another year, you know? That way you could start Kindergarten instead, and—”

“_Daddy.”_

Tony sighs. “Okay.”

Peter brightens. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Alright. Be off with you, squirt.”

Peter lurches for the car door handle. At the last second, though, he pauses. Turns around and throws his arms around Tony. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Tony replies. He kisses Peter’s cheek and leans back to look at him, all flushed with excitement and wide eyed and so, _ so _small. But at the same time, too big. When had he stopped being Tony’s little baby?

“Boss,” Happy urges from up front.

“Alright, alright,” Tony sighs. “Go on, kiddo. Be free.”

“Good luck, kid!” Happy calls over his shoulder. 

Peter couldn’t run off fast enough. He goes right for Pepper, who’s talking with the teacher. 

He’s going to be _ fine. _

But is Tony?

* * *

As it turns out, preschool comes with downsides.

Specifically, downsides in the form of runny noses and endless sneezes and one miserable, red-nosed four year old.

Term only started three months ago and though they’ve both mostly adjusted to it, Tony is more than glad to have the excuse to keep Peter home for more than two consecutive days in a row, even if it does mean ferrying bowls of soup from the kitchen to Peter’s bedroom and back again, among other things.

He returns to Peter’s room for the millionth time in one day only because he’d overheard the sound of muffled sobbing by happenstance. Tony’s eyes flit to his watch, which reads the time as twelve in the morning. It’s far too late for him to be awake still, especially when he’s sick. 

Tony had put him down (unofficially) about five hours ago. He’d left a Disney movie playing in the hopes that it would lull Peter into an easier sleep. His mom had done the same for him when he was a kid: stocked up on VHS tapes that she would never complain about having to rewind. 

Tony frowns and cracks the door. It’s dark in his room. The lamp is still off and the only thing to see by is the blue electric light of the TV. 

“Puppy?”

The blankets shift. Peter sniffles loudly and sobs in response. “_Daddy_.”

That’s the only push Tony needs. He slips inside and hurries over to Peter’s bed, flicking on the lamp as he goes. 

It’s worse than he’d anticipated: Peter curled up in a tiny ball, staring pleadingly up at Tony with red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, tears pooling, clutching the edge of his now throw-up stained comforter. 

“Oh, kiddo.”

Peter dissolves into a stream of sobs and sorrys. For two seconds Tony just stands there, frozen and wide eyed. For those two seconds he can almost imagine the way his father had felt when Tony had come running to him with a problem or a question or the after affects of a nightmare.

But unlike Howard, Tony doesn’t turn his back.

He kneels down and gently peels the blankets back. He pulls Peter into his arms, not caring about how gross it should be. It doesn’t even occur to him, really. He can only kiss Peter’s forehead over and over until the crying tapers off, assure him a thousand and one times that it’s okay, it’s not his fault, he’s not mad.

Then all at once Peter stops. His breath hitches. “D-Daddy—”

Tony is scooping him up and carrying into the bathroom before Peter can even finish what he’s clearly trying to say. They don’t make it to the toilet, but they make it to the sink at least. Tony washes it down as soon as Peter stops heaving so neither of them have to look at it. 

He adjusts his hold so Peter is perched on the counter. “Do you still feel sick?”

Peter shakes his head. “Just yucky.”

“Just yucky, huh?” Tony nods. That makes sense. “How about a bath?”

Peter doesn’t exactly light up, but he nods sleepily. Tony feels his forehead. “You’re a little warm.”

“Feel cold.”

“Yeah?” A fever then, definitely. “How’s your ear?”

“Hurts.”

Very eloquent, very informative. Tony holds back a sigh. The short responses are slightly worrying, but he knows Peter is too worn down to really talk. 

“Arms up?”

Peter obliges without protest. Tony pulls his soiled shirt off and grabs a towel to wrap around Peter in the meantime, because the last thing he needs is a freezing, shivering four year old. 

Peter finally focuses on Tony. “I don’t like being sick.” 

“No? I bet.”

“It’s stupid. I miss breathing good. Snot is gross and so is throw up.”

Tony can’t help smiling. It’s an unconscious thing. He leans down and kisses Peter’s forehead. “It is, isn’t it? You know what would help?”

“What?”

“Your medicine.”

Peter’s face wrinkles up. “S’gross.”

“That it is, Germy, but I promise it’ll make you feel tons better. Can you try to take some for me?”

Peter sighs, like doing so would be the asking the absolute most of him, but he nods. “I _guess so_.”

“Thank you, baby. It was a pleasure doing business with you.” 

Peter stays still while Tony retrieves the bubble gum flavoured torture from the cabinet and administers the proper dosage. Peter swallows it with a wrinkled up nose. 

Ten minutes later and Peter is in the bath surrounded by bubbles, which delight him to no end. “_Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles, bubbles,_” he mutters to himself, scooping them up, smoothing them between his hands, plopping them on his head. 

Tony watches with a smile that feels strangely languid and natural. He doesn’t tear his eyes away until he hears Pepper’s voice.

“You’re gonna get sick now, you know.”

She’s leaning in the doorway, suit still pressed even after a long day of running from place to place. Her lips are quirked up at the corners and she’s clutching a glass of water.

“Yeah, well,” he tries to think of a quippy comeback and comes up short. “Whatever. It’s worth it. Look at him. You think I could just leave him to rot in his own snot?”

Peter looks up and blinks. He holds up his hand. “Bubbles?”

Pepper grins at him. “That’s definitely not what I was proposing.”

She hands off the water. Tony offers it to Peter, who has to hold it with both hands and lean his head way back and… yeah. That’s fucking cute. 

“Did you need anything else or am I clear to leave for the night?” 

Tony sighs. He wishes, secretly and not for the first time, that she would just _stay_. “His bed is all—”

“I already changed the sheets,” she replies swiftly. 

Then there’s really nothing more he can ask of her without being unreasonable. 

“You’re clear.”

Pepper nods. She reaches out and strokes Peter’s still-wet, suddy hair. “I’ll lay him out some fresh clothes.”

“Thank you, Ms Potts.”

“It’s no problem, Mr Stark.”

He tries to tune her leaving, because it’s probably his least favorite sound in the world. Instead he focuses on Peter, gently working the soap through his curls, covering his eyes as he rinses it away. 

Peter splashes the surface of the water. He produces a rubber dog bath toy from the ledge and makes it kiss Tony’s cheek. 

God, what the fuck. 

His kid might actually be made of sunlight, of stardust. He’s just too good and so Tony kisses his forehead, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be satisfied until he’s squeezing Peter in a hug so hard they become one via osmosis. 

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?” 

“I love you.”

Without missing a beat, Tony asks, “How many parsecs?”

“33,” Peter replies, just as quickly. 

Tony smirks. He kisses Peter’s forehead again and smooths his hair back. “33, huh? That’s a lot.”

Peter tilts his head sleepily, blinking slow. He plays with Tony’s hand. “How many lightyears do you love me?”

Tony strokes his cheek, a fondness burning through him when Peter leans into the touch, skin still searing with fever. He doesn’t know what the hell he ever did without this kid.

“111.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “That much?”

“One more parsec than you,” Tony confirms. “Guess that means I love you just a little bit more than you love me, huh?”

“But—”

“S’okay, puppy, I like it better that way.”

Peter frowns. Then he does the four year old kid thing, immediately forgetting what it was he was talking about in favour of something better. He holds up to his hands to show Tony he’s all pruney. “Yuck!”

Tony laughs. “I take it you want out?”

“Yes please.”

He obliges, hauling Peter out, wrapping him up in a towel with teddy bear ears because they’re the absolute shit and no other opinions on the matter are acceptable, and carries him in his arms out of the bathroom where the drain groans and the light flicks off. 

Pepper is still there.

“Ms Potts, where you eavesdropping?”

She gives him a dry look. “No, it’s just…”

She holds up a stuffed bear—Honeybear Jr., to be specific—now half stained and ruined. 

Tony’s shoulders fall. Sure, they can wash it and it’ll be good as new, but it doesn’t change the fact that Peter will have to go without it and he sleeps with that fucking stuffed bear every single night. 

“Okay,” Tony says, way too quickly. “How about a movie and then bedtime?”

Peter is clearly too tired to argue, even if he wanted to. He reluctantly lets Tony help him dress and then lay him onto his bed. As soon as Tony stands, he seems to wither, curling into a tiny ball against his Star Wars patterned sheets.

The sight makes Tony’s chest cave in, like someone sucker punched his heart right out.

Peter looks up at him, eyes screaming what he thinks he’s too old to ask for, already starting to glaze with tears.

“Something on your mind, Bambi?”

“I don’t want you to go, daddy. Stay with me.”

As he says it, he pulls on Tony’s worn out, full of holes band shirt. Tony obliges readily, even though Peter’s bed is far too cramped for him to do anything but sit. He doesn’t even think about it as he pulls Peter into his arms and rests his chin on top of his head. The movie begins to play from the list JARVIS had complied for him. 

“What are we watching?”

“Finding Nemo. I like the fishies.”

“Do you know what kind of fish that is?”

“A clown fishie,” Peter says. “His name is Marlin and he’s sad because he can’t find his baby fishie.”

Tony holds Peter a little tighter at that. “I bet.”

Tony runs his hand through Peter’s hair absentmindedly, listening to him breathe. He glances up at Pepper, who’s been watching them with a soft look. “Are you joining us, then?” 

Pepper rolls her eyes. “What have I said about movies like this?”

“They make me sad.” 

“Exactly.” She turns to leave.

“Wait! Don’t go, I’m sad.”

Pepper hovers in the doorway, lips pursed. “If it was… for godmother purposes, I suppose it wouldn’t be out of line, exactly…”

“He _is_ sick,” Tony presses. “And sad.”

“Don’t push it.”

He grins, knowing he’s won her over. Pepper sighs as she kicks off her heels. She sets her paperwork aside and Tony scoots to make room for her on the little bed. There’s not much, but she manages to squeeze in. 

It leaves very little space between them. No space, in fact. 

“You smell like peppermint. Was this a purposeful decision to match your perfume to your name, or—”

“Mr Stark?”

“You’re off duty, call me Tony.”

“Fine. Tony?”

“Yes, Pepper?”

“Shut up.”

Tony smiles as he closes his eyes, feeling more tired than he has in a long time, but in a good way. Heavy and weightless at the same time. “Will do, Pep.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought, my dudes!! also follow my tumblr @peter-stank


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